Culture of Origin Vs. Country of Origin

When I was in 4th grade and again when I was in high school I had classmates ask me how old I was when my parents came to the States. Both sets of my Grandparents were born in the United States. After watching Supergirl where the public knows aliens live on Earth, some who look mostly human and some who look AS human as we do, I wrote my story, roughly in the context of that show. the title I gave for this one-shot stems from my feeling that America is my country of origin but I have never considered American culture my own. I define culture as the priories values tendencies and perspectives of the greater populace. And for having grown up in America's heartland a straight-white Bible-believing Christian, I don't believe I have anything really in common with American culture.

“I'm sorry it's just, the last time I was here that this was so foreign to me was taken as evidence that I was an extraterrestrial...not just a foreigner to the United States...or just a weird American citizen. Believing I was an extraterrestrial they thought I must have superpowers, a unique metabolism, physiology or something. The kept asking me where my home planet was, how old I was when I came to Earth and if I'd landed in the USA or somewhere else. While I will never count myself a typical American, that doesn't mean I wasn't a native born citizen of EARTH. Only someone from another planet could have been so unfamiliar with__ could have lived so unlike anything they thought was normal. Well as far as they cared. If it wasn't' for an agent named Jeremiah Danvers I...”

“I'm sorry what did you say?” Lena Luthor asked me.

“The original Hank Henshaw had conscripted a scientist named Jeremiah Danvers. He broke me out of the D.E.O. last time I was here. If not for him I would have rotted and most likely died...never meeting Supergirl or J'onn. Worse yet, never living the life abroad I have lived that tells me the difference between culture of origin and PLANET of origin.”

“You're pretty dispassionate about it all.” Lena said in a particularly dispassionate voice.

“When I was in 4th grade and again when I was in high school I had classmates ask me how old I was when my parents came to the states. My grandparents were born in the United States. I have never considered myself a typical American. I am quite familiar with my lack of conformity being seen as a lack of native origin. But to assume I was born on another planet instead of just another continent was a blindness I was NOT prepared for. And you know the name.” Lena looked up at me surprised and intent. “You don't know Jeremiah...no one could. But his name means something to you....more than even the name of the original Hank Henshaw.”

“Danvers.” Lena said shakily. “I know someone with that name. I...Kara Danvers is a close friend of mine. Are you saying you knew her father?”

“I'm saying that J'onn J'onzz assumed the identity of his, attacker for lack of another word. When I saw him I thought he was Hank Henshaw...the commander who took me in and treated me like an extra-terrestrial alien instead of simply a terrestrial foreigner. I'm saying a man named Jeremiah Danvers made it tolerable and gave me hope for humanity...that maybe people like HIM instead of like Henshaw might win out. If your friend Kara is descendant from this man...please ask her to come see me. I want to see someone who bears his likeness...no matter how near or far the apple fell.”

“I get the feeling there is more to it than that.”

“Jeremiah deserves to live on, to be remembered. No matter if it is accepted I must let people know. Jeremiah Danvers was a GOOD man. __ Is Kara?”

“Kara is the closest thing to a best friend I've ever had. And she is the most...she is a good person yes. I've never known anyone with a stronger moral compass than her. And from what you tell me, the apple really doesn't fall that far from the tree.”

Not actually sure Yet

Most of what I've thought through and most of the ruminations and explorations I've done in the last couple of years has been out loud to myself. There's no record of it but memory. Put to its essence, and very much condensed: Mom wouldn't admit that something was confusing to her so she simply said it was confusing, as in by nature. That no-one would understand my breaking conventions of writing by starting a story in the middle of the conversation or in something other than the first scene. But that's a common part of writing. It's not breaking tradition it's not only not usual to write stories that way, it is how stories are commonly written. When I avoid breaking conventions I absolutely flat out refuse to break them. And I stammer, like they don't know what they are asking me to do, to break those conventions. It led to the understandable misconception that I was autistic. That I was so adherent to formulas and prescriptions you would have to convince me it would be worth it to try to break them. Or if I am autistic, this is not the right evidence of it.

But my mom wouldn't read my stories without asking me why I'm writing them this way. Or worse, demanding I rewrite my stories in a way that made sense. On her next visit she would say with surprise “well where was my mind on that one isolated incident on that one visit.” Without anger she was laughing about it and sincerely. She didn't realize or accept that this was her norm. And it was. It got to the point of having her object to how I wrote a line, insisting borderline demanding I rewrite a line to make it clear I mean ASSA 'because right now it sounds like I mean BCCA'. When what it sounded like is what I meant. I did mean BCCA and she told me to change it top make it clear I meant ASSA before even asking me which I meant. And I would have to rewrite my stories according to her understanding before showing them to her. And so it became a labor for me to write according to college creative writing fiction class or according to my own style and understanding. Instead of writing according to what my mom understood, what she expected. Even typing things I don't particularly intend anyone to read, I still to this day as of the time I am writing this fight internally to go with what I knew was right, i.e. what I was trying to say and what sounded effective to convey my meaning rather than what she...enforced, encouraged, expected. What made sense to her her format, her understanding. And since Creative writing is all about breaking conventions in ways that make sense, keeping to any format even ones that made sense to her was making me a BAD writer. As well as all the second guessing I found myself doing even writing FOR myself.

This is my first sincere attempt to start writing a story according to what I know, which is in line with what Susan Carpenter and Cynthia Bandish, -my professors at Bluffton University- taught me, and what I learned as I wrote for myself, and not what I was taught and what my mom enforced as the proper way the clear, less ambiguous, prescriptive way. Flowing writing, was actually frowned upon with my mom. She insisted my writing needed more structure an more predictability. This is me writing, following the rules and being the unpredictable, fluid, natural writer I was taught to be. And was so good at.

“You did live through the war?” Rogers asked in a tone of which Jack could make nothing.

“Yes. Next question?” Jack's stare turned cool and detached. A warning to a soldier's mind.

Steve Rogers leaned back in his chair. “Do you really gallivant around the universe?”

Jack sat bolt upright in his chair. “Who told you that?”

“A friend of yours dropped in on us. We don't know who she was. She saw I'd met you. She tried to set the record straight. But honestly left more questions for us than we'd had before.”

“I take it she is why you are here now as opposed to any other time. I have an idea who this is. Light, shoulder-length blonde hair, clothes probably didn't fit the season much less the temperature of the room? Old soul type with a face like a glass of water?”

“Pretty much. She chose her words too carefully for the youth on her face that's for sure. She mentioned your 'Doctor', that you were a genuine solider type, and Torchwood had basically the same mission we did. I came here to see what she meant and if she was right.”

“Fair enough I suppose. But how do you intend to answer your own doubts?”

“What do you mean?” Captain Rogers asked thoroughly caught off guard.

“If my answering your questions isn't enough for you...I'm not assuming it is or isn't, but IF it isn't, how would you assuage your own lingering suspicions?”

“I'm not super-curious about your past. I'm a little curious on a personal level. But it wasn't the history of 'Captain Jack' that drew me here. Fury wants to know if this Torchwood you're a part of really is on our side...and how much of what Sarah told us you can actually verify.”

“No offense Captain, but that would have been a good place to start.”

Rogers looked up with mixed sadness and sternness. “It would've. Prove HER right.”

“I don't think in those terms. I don't try to understand her mind. I spent most of my time this past 100 years trying to be a better person than I was so I could be a good person in the Doctor's eyes. The only way to prove her right about Torchwood is for an alarm to go off within the next few minutes and I actually bring you along. Which I am not against, I just don't want to tempt fate here. Can we PLEASE stop treating each-other as enemy aliens? We're on the same side far as I can see, or care.”

“On that much we agree...Yes we can.” Steve replied in a quiet voice. He was genuinely embarrassed by the quiet dressing down. “I don't have any official business to discuss. You're not inclined to talk about Sarah or I'd ask you some stuff about her explanations and assumptions. Kind of a 'how'd she know about that?'. Do you have a soda or something in that cooler?”

Jack Harkness smiled, walked to the refrigerator and brought out a small bottle of ginger ale. He handed it to Rogers without a word and sat back down behind his desk.

“It's strange.” Jack said, as though to himself.

“What is?” Steve asked of his friend.

“Last time we got along great then it ended cold. Seems this is the reverse.”

“Jack...Can I go ahead and call you that?”

“I welcome it.” Harkness replied easily, a small hope forming in his mind.

“Then yes, it's the reverse. And I'm up for anything.”

“What are you psychic?”

“...I just meant there's a lot I can take in stride that most would consider ridiculous science fiction. Sorry Jack I didn't mean anything by it.”

“Are you going to answer it?” It was only then Rodgers saw the true cause and meaning of Jack's original question. His cell phone was ringing.

“Rogers.” Steve said into the receiver. “Yeah, I'm sitting right across from him. Why?” Jack hid a smile behind his hand. “Would you mind repeating that?” Jack's back straightened; his eyes widened in expectation. “Alright I'll ask him, but something tells me we won't...Yes ma'am.”

Captain Steve Rogers closed his cell phone and stared his friend in the face. His gaze hardened and his eyes narrowed. Jack didn't flinch. Seeing from their time together that the direct approach probably was the best way to go. Steve relaxed and sat up straight.

“How well do you know Sarah, and how well does Sarah know you?” Rogers asked coolly.

“I know Sarah from the 3 or 4 times she dropped in on us. She knows me cause she watched over Smith's gallivanting for a while now and I was part of that story. What changed?”

“She knows things she hasn't been there for, about your life?” Steve said without reserve.

Jack looked up at the ceiling and sighed. “She always wanted people's first impressions of her to be from her. I hope your having already met means it's okay for me to answer these questions. Otherwise I'll feel like a Quisling.”

“Jack, I need to know. Rather a partner of mine needs to hear it or something might get even more screwed up than it already is. And in no way shape or form am I messing with you.”

“I shall have to take your word on that.” Jack Harkness rubbed his face with his right hand and waved his left hand in front of his eyes. “The way she explained it to me, she keeps an eye on our adventures from…wherever she's from and falls through time somewhere along the, she calls them 'sequences' that she sees from there. She doesn't look into people's lives or histories...only their discoveries and adventures, and how the stories interact with each-other.”

“So it shouldn't mean much that she's able to quote my encounters with the rest of the Avengers to Black Widow.” Rogers stated succinctly.

“She proved to me that she knew who I was by quoting something I said to myself that no one else was around to hear. So yes and what's going on for that?” Jack's tone left little doubt the conversation was over if that question was left unanswered. Steve saw no reason to keep silent.

“Natasha Romanov is at a mental hospital in DC and a patient there keeps quoting what sounded to the nurses like pretty random stuff. Until Romanov, arrived and the girl started quoting meetings between the five of us...Including how Stark figured out Loki's plan.”

“I would trust her to know stuff like that, and when to say it. It doesn’t surprise me that her supposedly random nonsense isn't so random. My life on its own taught me to listen for it. I want to clear one thing up before we go ANY further. One misconception a-lot of people make about me is that I'm an alien who looks and acts as human as anyone. I've lived a very long time because of a freak accident while traveling. I Am Human. Just a CHANGED Human.”

“And traveling with Smith...you fell through time as well as space?”

“Essentially yes.”

“Wow.”

“Again, essentially yes.” Harkness quipped.

“I'm going to assume the expression on your face is pained as it is for a damn good reason.”

“I'm wondering how Sarah ended up in a mental asylum.” This wasn't a question so much as an assumption. A fact of which Steve was keenly aware after staring into Jack's eyes a moment.

“Honestly that's a question I had as well. But presumably for a slightly different reason.”

“If her own self-care-and-control failed, if her mask of happiness broke or her emotional storm of a personal history caught up with her, no one would question that she was literally mental. The problem, is how she ended up in a mental hospital anywhere but in her hometown.”

“You mean that she's literally crazy and no one else would notice?”

“No. I mean she's close to senseless to some people's eyes. Whether that would happen where she's from on a regular basis is beyond me. I know she has no common mind and that back home -wherever that is- she might be considered 'nuts'. But around here it only happens when she stays around for too long, and usually even her closest friends wouldn't be able to keep her here. I'm wondering why she'd hang around long enough to be literally if not descriptively 'arrested' ...and how it's even possible.”

“She mentioned she started traveling again and that if she didn't have her T.C. on her when she what was the word Phased again she'd be non-responsive. Apparently the two coincided.”

“What's she even doing hopping around again?” Jack Harkness stated in a queer voice.

“Why do you sound like you expect ME to know the answer to that?” Rodgers demanded.

“Because the last time I saw her face she told me her time and strength for bouncing around again were almost spent...that she'd have to go back to where she's from and stay there for...a really long time. If she broke that train of thought, which she herself created to avoid a mental system failure, to talk to your team you must be pretty damn important or pretty damn lost.” Harkness' terse voice and tense face were all the message and demand that Rogers needed. He knew to start making perfect sense. “I didn't come here to talk about her. I came here to figure you out. She is the catalyst, not the inciting incident. Fury wanted me to come here anyway, figure you out as best I could. From what I saw, she sent herself to the base with the express purpose of answering my questions about who and what you were. But she had a similar concern about betraying your trust.”

“Or robbing me of my chance to tell you all of this in person.” Jack stated glumly.

“Affirmative.” Rogers stated curtly.

“Thank you. Now that we are back on the subject of me, I DO age, but I can't die from aging... or any other way really. That's the second and equally vital reason I know World War II so well. The other being: I first met the Doctor during the London Blitz. He picked my up from there...for the first run.”

“Okay I'm listening.” Rogers replied, in a prompting voice.

“No offense, but listening to my words and paying attention to what I'm saying? Not the same thing.”

“Well I can't argue with that. It's just...it seems you're giving half-answers to everything.”

“I just do better answering specific concerns. But you obviously don't know enough about me to ask specific questions. Here's the highlights: I'm from the future. I was a con-man when the Doctor met me. It was somewhere between this time and the end of the universe that I got fried, re-charged and jolted back far enough that I lived through the entire twentieth century waiting for him to come back. He did. We fought out of a few scrapes together. He's picked me up and dropped me off a few times since then. Unlike him I have a life of my own with people who care about me. Actually the difference is, I come back to my people when I can. He runs off in the wind. I can't die. Torchwood, the original Torchwood that is, noticed...and conscripted me to fight and defend the earth against alien invaders like the doctor. I'm using nonspecific language but they counted the Doctor as an enemy alien in the most passionate sense of the phrase. Since Canary Wharf...our NYC battle... I've tried to prepare us for alien invasions...and to be ready to help MY Doctor save our skins.”

“All your names had the same face. He had different faces for the same name...I'm sated.”

“His kind regenerate when near death. Same face and soul. The rest is window dressing.”

Modern Three Muskeeteers

"My superiors have begun to question my sympathies." Dean couldn't believe what he was hearing. "I was getting too close to the humans in my charge. You, even to your brother. They're concerned my judgment and dedication may have been compromised.”

“Tell whoever's in charge instead, you do not want me doing this, trust me.”

“Want it, no. But I've been told we need it.”

“Castiel, I don't know how else to say this. If I walk into that room, if I give in, you will not like what walks back out.”

“For what it's worth, I would give anything Not to have you do this.”

Dean closed his eyes. Castiel might have had the powers of an angel, but in this matter he was powerless. He stepped through to door, face set hard and cold. The bastard strung up on the devil's trap had tortured him in hell for something like thirty years. Until finally he had agreed to be the torturer. And now, he would be one again. He forced himself to put the thought out of his mind. But he knew it would haunt him for years to come.

Sounds of pain came from the cold storage room; the moans were Alistair's, not Dean's. Castiel stood with his back ramrod straight against the wall, his arms firmly at his sides. He knew that his brethren were watching him with intense scrutiny, but somehow guarding an already triple-bolted room did not seem as important as intercession. And so he closed his eyes. “avi hakdush bioter. ani nichna lech bekal dvar shani osha. abel ani mevaksh am ze efshri, azor le'ish haza. haser et hameshima hazu mechtafav.”

“My most holy Father. I submit to you in everything I do. But I must ask if it is possible, help this man. Take this burden from his shoulders.”

“What exactly are you doing?” Uriel's voice interrupted rudely.

“You know exactly what.” Castiel replied tersely.

“You really are enamored of these little grease monkey aren't you?”

“When God himself tells me to stop caring about His most glorious creation which we are sworn to protect, I will stop. Until then I am his loyal solider. And you are not foolish enough to suggest otherwise. Besides, you and I both know Dean Winchester is more important to the fight than you are making out.”
“...Unfortunately yes.”

“ Then I should do everything within my power to keep him safe.”

“There is another, more sure way to win this fight.”

“Not without sacrificing the final battle. Or have you forgotten our ultimate enemy is Lucifer, not Alistair, and certainly not humanity.”

“Humanity isn't worthy of being our concern, much less our enemy. And what of our brother Lucifer, rotting in th cage, what did he do to deserve that?”

“He rebelled against God, corrupted our father's creation and out of ruined humanity.” Castiel replied. His voice was measured, his eyes searching. He kept his face impassive. Was Uriel suggesting what he seemed to be suggesting?

Dean Winchester was lying unconscious in a hospital bed. The Devils trap that had bound his 'prey' had been smudged and as a result the demon had been freed. Castiel and Sam had eliminated the threat, but were at a loss for explanations.

“Do not let your sympathy for these monkeys blind you Castiel! Our father doesn't care what any of us do. That I am even standing here is proof of that!”

“You killed our brothers and sisters. You attacked the garrison, killed our fellow soldiers, fellow angels, then blamed it on Alistair and his demons?”

“I only killed the ones who said no.”

“And now, if I say no, you'll kill me.”

“I don't want to brother. I like you. More than that, I need you. I need you to help me, help me free our brother Lucifer. All you have to do is take a stand.”

“I intend to.” Castiel faced Uriel, any hint of timidity gone. “Despite my attachment to certain humans, you consider me a worthy solider. I'm gratified. But you make one grave miscalculation. Castiel drove his blade into Uriel's heart. “I am still a loyal acolyte of God, no other. Not Dean Winchester not you.”

Dean woke up in his hospital bed to find Castiel sitting beside him.

“Are you alright?” The angel said with concern.

“No thanks to you.”

“Dean will you let me...” He raised his hand, reaching for Dean's broken jaw.

“Cass, I don't think you can.”

“Dean, I feel I owe you that much.”

“What will the others think.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Caring for you is in accordance with our orders. They won't object. I don't think I'd care if they did.” Castiel pressed his fingers against Dean's forehead and immediately the swelling vanished. Dean's sight was normal.

“Caring for me is 'according to your orders'?”

“You are aware, of what happened in Hell? Not what happened to you but, when you escaped?” Dean nodded miserably. “We believe that, it is written that the righteous man who begins this calamity, must be the one to end it. It's why Michael is so eager to have you as his vessel. And why no one objected to my attentions to you. Until now.”

Dean wondered what could have changed, if there was something specific Castiel had done to make the angels take notice. But he couldn't think what that would be, so he brushed the question aside. Castiel was staring at him again, his eyes soft but intense. “Dean, I hope I haven't ruined our chance at a friendship.”

Dean couldn't help smiling. For a solider of God surrounded by an army of ass-hats, Castiel was pretty okay. Almost human. “No Castiel. You've made a friend.”

A year earlier:

“James, what is going on?”

“I've thought about...what you said. I stayed up all night thinking about it.”

Jennifer leaned in, her movements cautious, her attitude loving. “And?”

“I can't fail him.” James Cole looked briefly at his wife and walked sadly out of the house. Standing on his front porch, he looked up to Heaven. “Castiel, promise my family will be okay, and I'll do it.” A warm white light surrounded him, he closed his eyes. “Yes I understand. And yes.” He felt a surge of energy. It wasn't painful in the slightest, but warm, inviting. The light faded a moment later.

Jenny ran out the door and found James standing in the yard.

“I am not your husband.” James Cole's voice intoned.

“You...you're Castiel.”

“Yes. Your husband is truly a devout man. Believe me, he prayed for this.”

“I'm not certain I can. But I do believe he accepted this, accepted you.”

“That is all I can ask. I must go.” He began walking into the yard. He turned back briefly. “I must go. I must find Dean Winchester.” Castiel wondered off into the night. To find his charge and although he didn't realize it, his destiny.

present day:

“Cas?” Dean called. He saw a man lying on his back.

“Cas, whoa take it easy.” Sam urged holding him gently.

The man held his hand to his head. “Castiel? Not Castiel. My name is Jimmy.”

Sam and Dean exchanged worried looks. Sam touched Jimmy's shoulder gingerly. “This might sound crazy but you really better come with us.”

“Crazier than letting an angel use you as a host for a year?”

“Tabling the con-fab until we're out of the hot zone.” Dean insisted.

Twenty minutes later Jimmy Emmanuel Cole sat at the dinging table in a low rent motel two very concerned strangers staring at him.

“I don't think I've ever seen anyone enjoy toasted oats so much.” Said the man with the longer hair and wider face.

“It's been almost a year since I've eaten anything.” Jimmy replied.

“Okay that would do it.” Said the other man. A man with shorter hair, slightly sharper features and strong emotions. “He never let you out?”

“I volunteered to be a vessel, I was the outside.”

“Ohh next time I see him I am so gonna kick his ass.”

“Pretty sure that can wait til later.” Sam insisted firmly. “What do you remember about being... possessed?”

“Not a lot. I remember being surrounded by a bright light. This constant, dull pain, calm, an empty kind of calm. I remember sitting in my living room with my wife, walking out onto the front porch and the next thing I know, the two of you are standing over me.” Jimmy looked from the concerned, soft-spoken man on his left to his other new friend. This man seemed to be struggling with anger, even feelings of betrayal. “I invited him in. It was my choice. He must have told you that.”

“Doesn't make it any easier to stomach.” Dean said miserably.

“I'm sorry, I've been rude. What are your names?”

“I'm Sam Winchester. This is my brother Dean.” Said the man on his left.

The names clearly meant nothing to him.

Jame Cole sat in the living room he once shared with his wife.

“James, you don't have to pretend. I know the truth.”

“About Castiel, how?”

“He...he talked to me, right after. I guess you don't remember but I ran out after you. Castiel told me you had invited him in.”

“I did. I asked him to make sure you and Claire were okay. He promised he would.”

“And out of the blue, he just let go of you?”

James shook his head slowly. “I get the feeling it was more like someone yanked him out of me, angry at him. I have NO idea what's been going on. Sam and Dean said they've been _Dean?”_ Yeah, they say they've been working with Castiel off and on for almost a year. It's weird they call him 'Cass'. Wait, they haven't been here have they?”

“No. It's just when Castiel left he said he needed to find Dean Winchester.”

“This is starting to make a weird sort of sense.”

“Jimmy, I know that look. Why are you so concerned about them?”

“They told me not to come here, that I was putting you in danger.”

“You're right they did.” A voice said from the other side of the room. Two men stood in the doorway. “You should have listened to them.”

Claire knelt beside her father, but James could see it wasn't his daughter. It was Castiel. He knew the warm expression on her face belonged to the angel.

“James, you have our gratitude. But your work is done. It's time to go home now, your true home. Rest now James.”

“No, Claire.”

“She's with me now. She's chosen, and fierce, like you.”

“Please Castiel, take me back. I'll be your vessel again. Just take me, please.”

“I'm not angry with you.” Castiel answered, thoroughly confused. Jimmy shook his head sadly. There was no way he could explain to an angel, who had no human emotions, what small a sacrifice he was making compared to having Claire taken from him. “I want to make sure you understand. It may be a century before I can leave again. You won't die, or age. You won't see your family again except in your memory.”

James clutched his daughter's hand, shaking in both desperation and pain. “It doesn't matter. You take me. Just take me, please.”

Castiel sighed heavily. “As you wish.” He pressed two fingers against James' forehead and once again the surrounding air shone with light. Castiel stood, Jenny didn't need told Castiel was back. He carried himself with the same mild confusion and distant expression she had seen on his face a year earlier.

“Daddy, where are you going?”

“He's answering God's call.” Jennifer answered.

“But we just got you back.” Claire all of 12 years insisted.

“I am sorry Claire. I hope you'll forgive me. I hope you'll understand one day. God put a call on my life, at least an angel did. I'm answering that call.”

“Where will you go?” Jennifer asked. It was all she could think to say.

“Wherever my charge takes me, I suppose.” The angel Castiel answered.

“God be with you...Jimmy.” Jennifer offered with a warm smile.

Castiel actually smiled back.

“Castiel, I know you're angry. I also know you're our friend. Look I'm not just offering an olive branch because we need you. But we DO need you Cass. It's the mark, Dean's given into it. He's almost gone. I know you have every reason to tell me to get stuffed. But please, Dean deserves better. Dean deserves a life.”

Sam looked up to find Castiel standing beside the pew.

“You continue to humble me Sam. You and your brother seem to make a habit of exceeding my expectations.”

“Does that mean you'll help him?” Sam replied, his voice rising.

“It means I'll hold onto him and never let him go as long as there's even a small chance that I can save him.”

Castiel approached the vehicle with Sam right behind him. The front seat and the ground beside it were drenched in blood. “He survived, right?” Sam inquired, or suggested, it was hard to tell sometimes.

“This way.”

As they searched for Gadreel, Castiel realized he was feeling shame. Gadreel had first come to the Winchesters offering his help, calling himself 'Ezekiel'. Had he used his real name, Castiel would never have allowed them to accept his assistance. For whatever reason, Gadreel had chosen to follow Metatron. Two days ago he had come to them with an olive branch. The truth of a devastating situation and an offer to help. Dean had attacked him with the viciousness of a wild animal. He had not been in control of himself, but Gadreel could hardly be expected to know that. Castiel had recently experienced hunger and loneliness, but could not imagine feeling wounded and afraid on top of that. He saw a man lying face-up in the grass. It was Gadreel.

The man saw them and his eyes went wide with fear. He tried to crawl away. “Please, I'll leave you alone, I swear.” He pleaded shakily.

'As if I needed to feel worse about this whole mess' Cass thought to himself. “We're not here to hurt you. Please believe me.” Cass assured the man. He reached out his hand, trying to heal the man's injuries. Gadreel hurriedly held up his hand, stopping him.

“No. Your Grace, healing me would only weaken you.”

Castiel smiled grimly. “We are both soldiers of duty Gadreel. Do I really need to explain to you why I have to do this?” Gadreel sighed but did not protest further. Castiel touched Gadreel's forehead. The wounds sealed themselves instantly. Cass lurched forward as if struck in the back. Then lifted the man to his feet.

“Should I ask why?' Gadreel inquired patiently.

“You mean aside from the fact that I am indirectly responsible for your injuries? Sam told me what you did while you were with him. You acted with integrity. Humans don't cling to the past like we do, personal or otherwise. They don't have our arrogance. At least,” He indicated Sam with a shake of his head. “they don't.”

“We have that much in common at least.”

They've been my role models on many things these past few years. This is just one more thing I'm learning from them.”

Sam and Gadreel faced each-other.

“Gadreel.” Sam Winchester said rather formally.

“Sam Winchester.” The angel replied with solemnity. They looked at each-other for a soft moment. “I hope I did not hurt you too badly.”

“I'm fine.” Sam assured him.

Castiel decided to push the conversation into an area of concern. “I have no right to ask but I'm going to; will you come back to the bunker with us?”

He could not blame Gadreel for tensing at his words.

Hoping to reassure the man, Sam gave voice to his thought. “Dean is locked in a storage room. He won't be able to hurt you, I promise.”

“I don't suppose I should ask what happened?”

Castiel measured his reply. “Dean is not in control of his actions. His mind is clouded, his emotions... amplified. Gadreel, I am asking you to trust me. Return to the bunker with us, help us figure out a way to expose Metatron, and take him down.” Castiel stared hard at the angelic solider, the former prisoner of heaven he had once sought to punish for his deceit, and said three words. “Point. Of. Honor.”

“You don't need to convince me Castiel. I trust you. I'll come.”

They walked into the bunker together. Dean was no where to be found bu this did not immediately seem concerning.

“You've helped both of us to see the other clearly.” Gadreel addressed Sam.

“What do you mean?”

“Castiel and I met a few days ago. He wanted to show me serving Metatron and serving Heaven were not the same thing. I agreed to meet because I knew how you felt about him. You consider him honorable.”

“To say the least.”

“He says you're the reason he attempted to reach out. I wanted to thank you.”

“Gadreel, I didn't give a glowing report or anything. I just told him the truth. Cass asked me what it was like when you possessed me. He asked me if I felt your presence, I told him I had. He asked if I ever felt threatened; I never did. I felt that you weren't at rest and that's what I told him. Nothing more or less."

But Gadreel would not be put off so easily. His feelings about his own intrusion aside, he was determined to make sure Sam knew what he really thought of him. “One thing I've learned these past months? With the exception of my brother,” He indicated Castiel. “angels don't think much of humans. They obviously don't know you very well.”

“Dean, I can fix that.” Cass offered, reaching across the table to heal Dean's scarred face. Dean held up his arm. pushing his friends hand away gently.

“No, no it's fine Cass.” 'How could you have gotten even more stubborn' The message on Cass' face was as clear as if it had been spoken. Dean gave a slight nod. “Besides I had it coming.”

Seven weeks earlier, possessed and consumed by the Mark of Cain and the power of the first blade, Dean had assaulted Castiel. The angel had not even raised a hand to defend himself. The mark of Cain was gone, the trio was together again. But the attack clearly still weighed heavily on Dean's conscience.

Cass realized his stare was becoming intrusive and sat down.

What exists and what I'm trying to fix: A timeline of Castiel's relationship with Dean and Sam from the first time he showed up until he came back from the void. A little bit about his development as a character

Seasons 4: An introduction to angel of the Lord Castiel and his cohort Uriel. Castiel appreciates humanity and has a conscience but is determined to do ANYTHING to stop the apocalypse. Because of Dean he finds a new way to live a new way to win. He is a recurring character only who ultimately betrays Heaven to help Dean and Sam fight on thier own terms. Season 5: Castiel is a bad ass who is working with Dean and Sam as Armageddon looms. Lucifer and the Archangel Michael are getting ready to duke it out. Sam is Lucifer's chosen vessel and the angels want Dean to become say 'yes' to Michael the archangel. Castiel has become a main cast member and a true friendship between Cass and Dean blooms quickly. 

Season 6: There's a civil war in Heaven that Dean and Sam don't give a damn about they need Cass immediately for whatever they are facing. Cass is a little angst-y but is perfectly able to kick butt. In fact, more so than usually. In the end he deceives and betrays Sam and Dean, getting into a deal with the king of Hell Crowley. words he later uses to describe his actions. But what he does has an unforeseen side-effect and he basically goes mad with power.

Season 7: Mostly absent after a self-sacrifice, trying to fix what he broke.  Has amnesia or brain damage when he  returns in episode 17. He and Dean work out thier crap and  kill the bad guy. They get sent to purgatory.

Season 8: Dean escapes purgatory and a few episodes later, so does Cass. Totally done with Heaven, Cass joins the brothers as a hunter. There's the strongest Destiel feel yet. The three of them are family. But his relationship with Dean is...special. The angel Naomi mind controls Cass for several episodes. The brothers to notice he's even more off than usual. There's an AMAZING episode with a glorious scene where a brainwashed Cass is beating the crap out of Dean who refuses to defend himself. Their bond and the power of the angel tablet, breaks Naomi's hold over him. The season finale? ANGELS FALL. Like lightning from heaven fall to Earth. Season 9: This is where Dean starts becoming a self-righteous jerk just for the sake of writing conflict into the show. Something that Thank God doesn't last more than this season. Dean kicks Cass out without explanation, lies to Sam about why and never even really explains to Cass why he kicked him out. Cass has tender moments of friendship with Sam. Dean starts getting affected by something called the Mark of Cain. Also features the only angel other than Castiel who gets how important humans are and shares his sense of honor. An angel named Gadreel who introduces himself as 'Ezekiel'. You can guess how well that went down.

Seasons 10-12 are them being brothers to each other through everything. Being family to each-other and growing closer. This is where Destiel moments started to feel like teases and just queer-baiting. Castiel runs away from them partway through season 12 and actually dies. Like they hold a funeral for him and burn his body. He comes back in early season 13 having pissed off an ancient entity so badly that it spit him back out.

Almost everything after that is well, old hashed on worn out tired inconsistent stuff. Dean resumes being poorly written and his anger and 'I don't give a crap' drill sergeant-ness becomes the norm. Lucifer's son Jack arrives and calls Castiel his father. Lucifer was basically a surrogate because while in his human mother's womb, Jack chose Castiel to be his father and protector. Jack dies, they bring him back to life in a way that damages his soul. The more the he uses his powers to protect them, the less of his soul will remain. They're in denial about how soulless he is for a long time. When they admit how soulless he has become. That's when Dean becomes such an f-ing sanctimonious hypocrite and it is appallingly clear writers are no longer trying. If they were, Sam would have defended Cass. Dean rails against Castiel for quote 'having known how bad Jack is this whole time and never telling us' and being the father of an soulless monster that he's been defending. Eventually even holding a gun on Castiel's son Jack. After 5 episodes of this, Cass leaves the bunker. Not because Dean was wrong, only because Dean can't forgive him for his misjudgments and is holding onto anger. "You used to trust me, give me the benefit of the doubt. And now you can barely look at me.". Season 14 proves Cass is romantically in love with Dean, only because no one would ever take THIS much crap from anyone and not think twice, unless they loved that person so completely it doesn't occur to them they were doing anything wrong or unfair. Dean needed to loose what he had in order to admit for the first time how much he'd taken Cass for granted and how badly he'd treated the man. THAT was a beautiful moment. But what the writers used as an excuse in order to get there was pathetic. They were basically married for the final season. But the writers had long since stopped trying and the episodes made no sense. I HATED God and Death and Billie and any of it. The other two protagonists of these later seasons, thier mother Mary and another universes Bobby Singer disappeared with barely any explanation. Mary was written out before she was killed off. And everything went both inconsistent and nihilistic. But still, we got between 8 and 10 years of absolute BFF goals out of these guys. 

J'onn has the Heart of a Hero

   In a world where everyone is the extreme of themselves, Jeremiah speaks of their benign captor J'onn Jo'nzz.

'Will this be our life now? it's better than it was, especially for her. And that's what matters.'. The alien would come, feed us, ask us a few simple questions and then leave. He never did anything more TO me than shove me against a wall or punch me in the chest when I was 'being implacable'. But he actually, well, took care of us. And I was having trouble making heads or tails of him.

“This is...I don't even know how to finish that sentence.”

“Nikita calm down, you'll only exhaust yourself.”

“You're right. It's just our host, for lack of another word confuses me.”

“How do you read him? I mean I know you can, a lot better than most.”

“I'm not a telepath. I can sense someones' motivations and intentions, and any strong feelings. That's about it.”

His motivation is what I'm trying to figure out. For holding us prisoner the past month, he doesn't seem particularly interested in us.”

“He's trying to make sense of us. More specifically, of me.”

“Does he know who you are?”

“That I'm an alien. The rest? He has a nearly accurate picture of things. I'm starting to suspect I'm 15 degrees off of everything I know about him.”

“How do you mean?”

“Either he's extremely a-typical for his race or I got the two confused to begin with. But he would've had longer than I did to learn otherwise.”

Jeremiah looked sad. “I take it by 'to learn otherwise' you mean 'to learn what living on Earth would have taught him'.” Nikita nodded solemnly, her straight auburn hair shaking slightly with the motion. “How long have you had to learn the ways of Earth?”

“I first landed on Earth not too long before you landed on the moon.”

“You do not look that old. Two, how much older do you think he is?”

“My people live about 120 years. He's been here for at least 300 years.”

“Okay how do you know THAT?”

“He's Martian. No matter what else he is, he's a Martian. Which...I hate being so clinical but Mars has been...inhospitable for the last 300 years.”

“Wait, are you saying that depending on which race of Martian he is...”

“Jeremiah, if that man wanted us dead we'd BE dead.”

“Then why the hesitation?”

“I'd rather believe the way he's been talking is a result of living on Earth for the last 300 years and not because I got wrong which race of Martian was which.”

“Okay, you really do need to sit down and vague out.”

“That sounds like a good idea.” Nikita's head dropped as she pulled her feet close to her hips as she entered what he knew to be a meditative state. Her knees were almost as high as her head. She could've been asleep except her eyes were moving. It was a pose she maintained into the next morning.

Jeremiah could sense something was wrong. The man's eyes never left Nikita's face. “Come with me, now.” He said to Nikita. “I'll not ask again.”

Jeremiah stood beside his friend, his attitude protective. “Leave her alone.” J'onn raised his hand as if to backhand Jeremiah. But seemed to think better of it in the last second. “Whatever you have planned for her, take me.”

“If I plan to take her and execute her. Do you still volunteer?”

“I would not. But I know you're going to. Nikita was right, if you wanted either one of us dead we'd BE dead by now. If you wanted us hurt we'd be beaten black and blue. What you want from either of us is answers.”

“And it's about time I get them.” He grabbed Nikita's wrist and began dragging her to the door. Jeremiah put his hand on the man's shoulder and forcefully pulled him away. “Your actions are heroic, if exceedingly unwise.”

'What do you want with her?' Why the sudden interest in her?' 'Leave her alone you animal!' These expressions stretched themselves across Jeremiahs face in about 2 seconds. But he said none of these things. Instead he held out his hands in an emphatically non-threatening posture. “Sir, and I call you that because I have nothing else to call you. I swear on my life if you hurt her, my restraint will go right out the window. I will probably die trying to put you on the floor. But if you let her go, you can do whatever you want to me__in payment of that debt.” This speech did not have quite the effect he'd intended. The green-skinned Martian backed away from his human charge and cast down his eyes. “This surprises you?”

“Yes. What IS she to you? I mean...who is she to you?”

“Someone who has been tortured for years by a man far more blind than I have words to express. A man I served under for years and at one time looked up to. And I would die before I let her come to harm again. If there is one truth of which I need no convincing it is that she is innocent. And that she is precious to me. I can't understand it. But PLEASE, she has been through enough, let her alone.”

“You've learned I'm not Enkaren. And not the threat you feared. You must have thought HE was. Why? More relevant question...Phobos or Deimos?”

“You know the difference?” The Martian was astonished beyond measure.

“I know who they are. I don't know which is which. That was the problem. 'In the early days of Mars there were two brothers, Phobos and Deimos. Their rivalry and bloodshed was the reason for the split of the Green and White Martians.' I learned that from an Enkaren woman I once knew here on Earth. From which I understood that Phobos and Deimos were like Ishmael and Issac from the Bible. Except they split along such divergent paths they became two separate races rather than founding two separate religions. I never learned who was whose progenitor.”

“You never knew if my kind were...Ishmael or Issac?”

“I've never met your kind before in my life. And the White Martian I met was...Hank's favorite example of how dangerous aliens could truly be. She'd been in that cell for over a decade when I met her. No one could hold completely to their morals after that.” She spoke with unrestrained bitterness. “In case you haven't figured it out yet, Henshaw was a Creech-ta. If not a Chrish-naka Sareth. And until now you seemed equally blinded.”

“And f you had known I belonged to Deimos... you would have...”

“ 'Deimos Pah, Tar-ek Ni-cha.' would have been the first thing out of my mouth when you entered the room.”

“Could someone provide me with a translation, please?”

“What she said was that I've failed or disgraced the name of my progenitor.”

“Deimos?” Jeremiah guessed.

Nikita nodded. “Phobos and Deimos are the two progenitors of the Martian race. White Martians are monsters. I was reasonably certain of that because of my other alien friends. I just never knew who came from whom.”

“How in the name of rational thought are you speaking the Enkaren language so naturally if you are not, yourself Enkaren?!” J'onn exploded with feeling.

“Because it's my native language!” Nikita replied, openly laughing at him.

“But you...you're not...” He rubbed his left forefinger against her temple, as if tracing something that shouldn't be there. “Are you Xavallen?”

“Why should that be of particular interest to you?”

The alien bowed at the waist and backed away from Nikita. “I...my name is... J'onn Jo'nzz. I must humbly beg your pardon.” He walked away without another word.

A couple of hours later, Jeremiah walked up the stairs and into the dining room. Where he saw J'onn sitting thoughtfully. “I'm hoping you can tell me. I don't know any of these people. These races.”

J'onn didn't mind. In fact he seemed rather pleased with the request. “Enkarens and Xavallens are sibling races to each-other. Enkarens are – genetically speaking in trouble – but also far superior to humans in most respects. Apparently, along with the Atraxi, they speak the same native language.”

Realization blanketed Jeremiah's face. “She doesn't make sense for an Enkaren.”

J'onn nodded. “Xavallens are a protected species. Their home-world became uninhabitable over 200 years ago. Most of them are nomadic. But some have assimilated, to varying degrees, into other cultures. Jeremiah. Well for one thing may I call you that?”

“Of course.”

“For 16 of the 23 major powers in these galaxies, if I had known what she was, my interrogation of her without cause against her, most especially without defiance sent would have been a crime.”

“Is that why this whole thing came screeching to a halt?”

J'onn looked at him rather oddly. When he spoke, his voice was soft and deliberate. “It came to a halt because I thought she was an Enkaren who you were keeping silent. Because in that moment,” He moved his hands out and apart like Jeremiah had done. “You proved yourself to be a GOOD man. And I realized I never should have laid a finger on you in the first place.”

“J'onn, you talk as if you've been a monster to us. You were nothing of the kind. You've been good, decent, kind, even hospitable to us since we woke up in your house. The rest of it was as much my fault as it was yours. And it's not like I didn't agree to this.”

                                             A GOOD Man

(Jeremiah has overheard J'onn talking to Sarrin) It was five days later that I started really wondering what was going on. J'onn came to talk to us about once a day. He'd ask a hundred questions, give us lunch and dinner and then leave. This was after 2 weeks of taking one or the other of us away for private conversations that would last for hours. He'd either shove me against the wall or give me a blue jaw when he thought I was lying to him or being as racist as any human, but that was it. Beyond that he, actually took care of us. It was... I don't know what it was.

“Why do I get the impression you're making fun of me?”

“I suppose I am...a little bit.”

“You have no idea how happy I am to hear that.”

“Even so, I'm having trouble making heads or tails of him.”

“And I'm pretty sure he's doing everything he can to make sense of us. Or more specifically, of me.” {J'onn comes in, mentions Nikita's human appearance and how well she keeps her temper in check – both sincere complimentary observations – gives them large glasses of potato curry soup and leaves}

“Okay, now I'm REALLY confused.”

“This simply cannot continue.” Nikita whispers. She turned to face the wall.

“Come with me, now.” J'onn told Nikita, who stood but did not move. “I'll not ask again.” J'onn insisted, taking a step toward her.

I got in front of her and raised arm out. “Leave her alone.” For a split second I thought he was going to backhand me or knock me to the floor. But he didn't move. “Whatever you have planned for her, take me instead.”

“For all you know I'm about to take and execute her. Do you still volunteer?”

“No, but I know you're not going to. Nikita was right if you wanted either of us dead, we'd be dead. If you wanted us hurt, we'd be beaten black and blue. What you want – the only thing you've wanted from us – is answers.”

“And it's about time I get them.” He grabbed Nikita by the wrist and started dragging her away. I grabbed his shoulder and pulled him away from her.

“Your actions are as heroic as they are unwise.” He warned me.

“Sir, for almost a month now the three of us, most certainly the two of us have been remarkably civil to each-other...given our situation. You must have seen Nikita was as dedicated to my well-being as I was to her protection.” J'onn nodded his agreement. “By that token I tell you that if you hurt her again, my restraint will go so far out the window it leaves the atmosphere. I would certainly die trying to take you down. I have that amount of sense. But if you let her go...” I took a breath and put my arms out in front of me as if being arrested, then pulled them as far apart from each-other, stretched to either side as they could reach. “If you let her go you can do whatever you want to me___in payment of that debt.”

I must admit the speech did not have anything LIKE its intended result. Our host cast his eyes to the ground and backed away from me. “This surprises you.”

“Yes, what is she to you? Who is she to you?”

“Someone as precious to me as my own daughter. I don't expect you to understand; I barely understand. I will DIE before I let her come to harm. You will not hurt her.”

“You care for her?” he said in a strange voice.

“This surprises you?”

“I knew you felt responsible for her. This is...Who or what is she, to you?”

“Someone who was tortured for years by a man more blind than I have the words to express. Hank Henshaw was...was so convinced Nikita was an enemy and a liar. He tortured her to get her to reveal her true appearance and intentions. Basically he wanted her to show him the monster she really was underneath. But there was no monster. That she was a gentle and innocent soul should have been obvious. It was but he couldn't see it. I'd rather die than let her come to harm again. Sir, I can't pretend to understand you, but I swear on my life, if you let her go you can do whatever you want with me __ in payment of that debt.” This speech had far from its desired effect. J'onn backed away.

“I was wrong about you. I'm so sorry.”

“Okay...not what I expected to hear from you.”

“None of this was needful Sajen.” Nikita interjected. “It never was, was it?”

“No, no there wasn't.” He replied softly. He sounded like a schoolboy being dressed down for bad behavior. But Nikita wasn't finished.

“For someone who can read minds to determine true souls you're Deaf!”

“Nikita, help me understand this.”

“Both races of Martians are telepaths. I take it he doesn't read minds without permission but he should have asked. I would have given it!”

I turned to J'onn. “You're a telepath?”

“Yes, but unlike her kind I don't pick up continuous transmissions. I can read you mind if I choose. But, she is right. I do not do so without permission.”

'A comedy of errors with little funny about it.' I thought to myself.

“If this had gone on any longer 'Deimos pah, Tarek Nit-cha.' would have been the next thing out of my mouth. Or are you Phobos?”

“Do you know what they are?”

“I know that - 'in the early days of Mars there were two brothers, Phobos and Deimos. Their rivalry and bloodshed was the reason for the split of the Green and White Martians.' I learned that Phobos were barbaric. Creech-ta if not Crishnaka-Sareth. I just never knew who came from whom.” I must have had a VERY confused look on my face because Nikita turned to me. “What you thought Hank was and who he was are the best exampled. He was an ignorant arrogant asshole, if not an ambassador of hell. That's what the two words mean, in my language.”

Something seemed to click in J'onn's brain. “How can you be speaking the Enkaren language so flawlessly if you are not yourself Enkaren?”

“Because it's my native language as well.”

“What?”

“Atraxi, Enkarens and Xavallens all share the same language. No more than 3,000 years ago we were the same race!” J'onn stepped toward Nikita and brushed his fingers over her temples. I figured his friend had markings there.

“I must humbly beg your pardon.” He said sadly.

“Okay, now I'm lost.”

“No more so than I.”

“Xavallens are different from any of us. In that they offer bread before peace or a sword. But also they don't fight for their own life, not as quickly as they fight for a strangers. Compared to Enkarens, they are friars and Philosophers.”

“Hank struck me across the face. That is ALL he did and it was all that was needed. Nikita broke out of the machine, slammed Hank against the wall and with her forearm across his throat, told him he should listen to my perceptive comments. Then pulled herself back. Got on her knees and waited to be taken back to her cell.”

“I'd guessed why you were so passionate about protecting her. Until now I didn't understand why she was at least as adamant about protecting you. She saw you as Alana-Kai.” I smiled at him. “It means something like guardian or protector.”

“I'm sorry but I don't understand the connection.”

“Enkarens and Xavallens are sibling races to each-other. Enkarens are formidable and just. Xavallens and Enkarens probably don't look like each-other anymore. But they still speak the same language.”

I recognized the meaning. “And she doesn't make sense for an Enkaren.”

“If I had known what she was...” He seemed at a loss for words. “Xavallens are a protected species. Laying a finger on her to get you to talk or the other way around is a crime. And I must beg her forgiveness.”

 “Sir, I confess I still don't know where this comes from but I know her. She holds you no grudge for any of this.”

“And what about you?”

“You didn't know. Besides, it was as much my fault as yours. And as much my CHOICE as hers.”